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Mikoto can't even remember the last time she wore her uniform. Before her wedding, she thinks, running her fingers over the cloth, but while it’s a timeframe it’s not a memory. She can't recall the mission, her team, her target. There was one, of that she’s certain, but…it’s gone.
It feels like such a dire thing right now, her lack of memory.
The uniform still fits, though, which is all that matters. A little tighter in places, a little looser in others, but when Mikoto pulls on her flak jacket none of it is visible. She looks like a shinobi again, instead of a mother. Looking at her, no one would be able to tell that she’s spent the last eleven years raising her children rather than taking missions.
Her sword is already cleaned, as is her hitai-ate. She picks up the latter, weighing it in her hand for a moment. Light, she thinks, and the juxtaposition to what it means makes her smile a little as she ties it around her brow, securing the knot under the fall of her hair. The sword she slings across her back, tying the red cord over her shoulder. That too is incongruously light, but she already came to terms with that particular burden when she moved from genin to chuunin. This changes nothing.
If her hands shake a little when she reaches for the door, that’s fine. There's no one else here to see.
Itachi looks up from where he’s trying to feed Sasuke as she comes down the stairs. His eyes flicker over her, not missing anything, but he doesn’t mention the change. Instead, he asks, “Should I watch Sasuke?”
“Please,” Mikoto says with a smile, pausing and bending down to press a kiss to his forehead. He blinks at her, faintly surprised, and Mikoto tries not to think how it hurts a little. “I'm not sure how long I’ll be, but if I'm not back by tonight go to Shisui's. Chiyoha will take care of you.”
Worry rises, clear as day, before he pushes it down again and murmurs, “All right. Be safe, Mother.”
“I will,” Mikoto promises, and heads out the door.
Itachi doesn’t ask where Fugaku is.
(Mikoto remembers Itachi at four years old, Fugaku dragging him off to see the aftermath of one of the Third War’s bloodiest battlefields. Remembers how, for weeks afterwards, Itachi wouldn’t speak so much as a word by day, but woke sobbing at night from the horror of his dreams.
Her hands close into fists, and for a moment the sword on her back weighs hardly anything at all.)
It’s early morning, the sun barely on the horizon, and the village is coming awake as Mikoto passes through it. A few of the merchants she frequents wave cheerfully, just beginning to set up their stalls, and Mikoto offers swift smiles in return but doesn’t pause as she turns her feet towards the Administration Building. There's no waver, no hesitation; she walks with her head held high and her shoulders squared, swift steps that haven’t forgotten a shinobi’s sense of purpose.
No one calls out for her to stop, and she’s glad for it. If she stops she’s not entirely certain she’ll be able to start again.
Up the stairs, into the heart of the Administration Building, and there's only a lone, sleepy ANBU in the shadows by the door. He eyes her without wariness, lets her pass without challenge, and something in Mikoto bristles angrily at that. Sloppy, she thinks. In my day—
“Come in!” the Hokage calls at her quick knock, voice bright and cheerful despite the hour. Mikoto smiles despite herself—
No.
Mikoto allows herself to smile at the sound of it and pushes the door open. She shuts the ANBU outside, tries not to think just how many openings his carelessness is leaving an assassin, and dips into a low bow. “Hokage-sama.”
“Mikoto!”
The tone is so delighted Mikoto can't help but glance up, smiling again, and her eyes catch on fiery red hair, just the way they always do. Impossibly long, impossibly bright, an ankle-length fall of the fieriest crimson Mikoto has ever encountered. She lets her gaze linger for just half a heartbeat before sliding onward, to violet eyes and a warm grin, and there's nothing on this earth that could keep the affection out of her voice when she answers, “Hello, Kushina.”
Kushina beams at her like this is the best start to the day that she could have imagined. She pushes to her feet, tossing her hair out of the way with a careless flick of one wrist that Mikoto has always found entrancing, and hurries around her desk to drag Mikoto into a tight hug.
“You actually came to visit me!” she says, pulling back, and her grin hasn’t wavered. “I thought you forgot where I lived, airhead!”
Mikoto laughs a little, even though the words twinge deep inside her chest. She’s never been like Kushina, bold and brave and pushing to the front. A follower instead, readily directed to where others want her, and it’s not a bad thing, especially in a world like theirs, but—
But Mikoto has been led to all the wrong places recently, away from all the things that brought her joy, and for the first time in a very long while, she’s planting her feet and saying no.
“Sorry,” she says, and when Kushina moves to let her go Mikoto reaches up, catching her elbows and holding her in place. Her fingers tighten before she can stop them, grip halfway to desperate, and she stares into Kushina's beautiful, familiar face, trying not to tremble.
Something in Kushina's expression gentles, softens, and her grin turns into a smile. She catches Mikoto’s elbows in return, grip firm but not painful, and her eyes flicker down, then back up.
“Going for a new look?” she asks, and manages to make it sound light despite the worry growing in her gaze.
Mikoto takes a shaky breath, then lets it out. With one last gentle squeeze, she lets go of Kushina and steps back, pulling herself back up into an Uchiha kunoichi’s perfect posture. “An old one, actually,” she confesses, and smiles are easy to come by, looking at Kushina, even if the subject matter is so heavy. “Do you have a minute?”
“Of course!” Despite the cheerful tone, Kushina clearly recognizes that this is going to be a serious conversation, because she rounds the desk and settles back into her chair, shifting the papers in front of her out of the way. A small smile crosses Mikoto’s face as she watches, eyes flickering from Kushina's bent head to the red and white hat that’s sitting on the far edge of the desk. She remembers her first time seeing Kushina wearing it, the way her heart got all caught up in her throat and her breath knotted in the bottom of her lungs. Remembers standing in the crowd, Sasuke in her arms, as the Sandaime placed the hat on Kushina's head.
She’d been pale, Mikoto thinks. Pale and worn but grimly steady, her eyes red from crying in what certainly wasn’t joy, and her gaze kept flickering over to where Naruto lay in one of the guards’ arms. Mikoto hadn’t gone to her before the ceremony, had done as Fugaku strongly suggested and stayed with her children out of sight, but—she didn’t need to actually see it happen to know that Kushina had spent the hours beforehand in front of the Memorial Stone, speaking to her husband.
The Kushina now is worlds away from the grieving widow who took her husband’s place with steel in her eyes, Mikoto knows. Five years and a steadfast devotion to the village that’s unrivaled by anyone’s has been enough to re-forge Kushina with an even sharper, more devastating edge. If anything, Mikoto thinks she’s even more glorious now than she was as a jounin, a wife.
Then again, Mikoto supposes that Kushina has had more than enough practice rebuilding herself from the ashes of tragedy.
“Mikoto?” Kushina says gently, and Mikoto snaps her eyes away from the Hokage's hat, back to her best friend. Kushina is watching her, and the concern is clearer now, close to the surface. She doesn’t ask what’s wrong, but tips her head at the empty chair across from her and says, “You can sit down, you know. I'm not that scary, am I?”
To her enemies, maybe, but certainly not her friends. Still, Mikoto hesitates, because she isn’t fully sure where she stands right now. It’s been—gods, years since they did more than wave to each other in passing. If Mikoto regrets one thing overall about marrying Fugaku, it’s that. There are more regrets—many more—but cutting Kushina out of her life is the greatest.
Maybe if she hadn’t, all of this could have been prevented.
Taking a breath that shakes through her, Mikoto reaches for her sword, pulling it sheath and all over her head. She grips it between hands and lifts it up like an offering as she drops to her knees before the Hokage's desk, her head bowed. There's a sound of surprise, the scrape of the chair as Kushina pushes to her feet, but this time Mikoto doesn’t look up.
“Hokage-sama,” she says, and is almost taken aback when her voice doesn’t tremble but comes out steady, determined. “With this sword I committed a great crime. Will you judge me?”
There's a long moment of silence, and then red fills Mikoto’s vision—a different kind of red than she saw last night, when Fugaku came to her, or maybe it’s exactly the same. Kushina lays her hands over Mikoto’s on the sheath, and asks quietly, “Mikoto?”
Her breath catches like a sob in her throat, but Mikoto doesn’t look up, doesn’t waver, doesn’t regret. She made her decision, and if she had to go back and do things over, she would make the same choice again. “With this sword,” she says, “I killed my husband.”
Kushina freezes, fingers tensing against Mikoto’s, but Mikoto isn’t finished. “I killed my husband,” she repeats. “And I killed the Uchiha Clan Elders. I killed the top commanders in the Military Police Force. I killed Shimura Danzō, the village elder.”
The silence is heavy, weighted like lead. Kushina doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t move away, doesn’t retreat, doesn’t withdraw. Her hands are firm against Mikoto’s skin, ten distinct points to ground and reassure, even if she doesn’t know it.
Another moment without any sound between them, and Kushina breathes out, careful and steady. She tugs the katana from Mikoto’s grip as she settles back on her heels, studying it for a moment and then gently drawing the blade partway out of the sheath. That too is soundless, because no shinobi worth their rank would make noise drawing their weapon, but Mikoto catches the flash of the new sunlight reflecting off the polished steel.
“You’ve been carrying a sword since I met you in the Academy,” Kushina finally says, soft but firm. “Mikoto, I've known you since the day I came to Konoha, and I have never seen you use your blade for anything but defending the village. Who you are hasn’t changed. So tell me the full story.”
For a moment it’s entirely impossible to breathe. Mikoto feels something within herself ache, and she can't tell if it’s from things tearing or things mending. Her hands, which ended up clenched in her lap when Kushina took her sword, reach out of their own volition, desperate and grasping. Kushina catches them in her own, the katana falling carelessly to the floor between them, and drags her up and in. Mikoto all but collapses against her best friend’s shoulder, arms closing around her with what must be painful force as she buries her face in crimson hair, and a sob wrenches through her. There's no wetness on her cheeks, because even now she can't bring herself to cry, but the dry sobs are somehow worse, rough and full of a grief she isn’t even certain that she feels.
“Kushina,” she whispers, clutching her close. “Kushina, oh gods, I love you. I love you so much, I never stopped, I swear—”
Kushina laughs, a sad, hitching sound, and presses her hands to the curve of Mikoto’s spine. “I know,” she answers. “I'm the same, you have to know that.”
Mikoto shakes with another sob, but nods, her face hidden away in the thick fall of Kushina's hair. She doesn’t answer, because she’s the one who said no, who was engaged when they met and never protested it, who went to be married to a boy she only counted as a friend because it was for the good of her clan. She’s the one who hurt too much and stayed away as best she could, even though that ached as well. Less than temptation, less than regret, and so she hadn’t protested when Fugaku drew back from the village, when all the Uchiha did.
“They wanted to kill you,” she confesses, though she doesn’t move. If anything, her fingers curl more tightly into Kushina's shirt, denying even the concept of separation. “They were planning a coup, and when they told me, they said I would have to be the one to get close to you when the time came. I would have to be the one to betray you, to kill you. I couldn’t. So I killed them, all of them, and I'm not even sorry.”
She laughs into Kushina's skin, wild and broken, and leans back just enough to see her Hokage's face. “Fugaku was so surprised,” she says, and even now it’s disbelieving. “He knew I loved you, he knew I only married him because I had to. And yet he asked me to do that, and he was surprised when I came for him.”
Kushina's expression is solemn as she reaches up to cup Mikoto’s cheek. Her fingers are rough with calluses, and her skin smells faintly of honing oil. “Thank you,” she says, pulling Mikoto in to gently rest their foreheads together. “You always save me, Mikoto. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’ll never have to find out,” Mikoto swears, and it comes out fierce, a challenge to the world daring it to defy her. She twists her hands into Kushina's hair, closes her eyes as she breathes in the scent of her, wildflowers in the sunlight and the sharpened edge of a blade.
They're so close that she can feel it when Kushina smiles, can feel the stirring in her chakra when she says, “We’ll fix things, Mikoto. We’ll fix it all. No one will feel the need for another coup.”
The thought of another chills the blood in Mikoto’s veins, sets her heart to pounding, and she opens her eyes, meeting and holding Kushina's gaze even as her fingers tighten in red silk. Maybe Kushina is the Kyuubi jinchuuriki, maybe Kushina is still one of the strongest shinobi in the entirety of the elemental countries, but—
“I’ll protect you,” she says, and it’s nothing less than a soul-deep promise. “From everything.”
Kushina doesn’t tell her that’s a silly goal, doesn’t point out that it’s entirely impossible. She just smiles as she leans in to kiss Mikoto on the forehead. “Why Danzō too?” she asks, like it’s an afterthought, and the way her nose wrinkles is just as cute as Mikoto remembers it being. “Not that I don’t get the urge to murder him in cold blood, because wow, you just made my life a thousand times easier, but—”
Mikoto laughs before she can help it, because she’d forgotten, but Kushina has a vicious side that more than rivals her own. They were always well-matched in ANBU, even if other members complained about being assigned to their team. Too bloodthirsty, she often heard. Too ruthless. Too prone to enjoying the hunt and its inevitable end.
Try being a kunoichi who doesn’t take seduction missions or work as a medic, Mikoto always wanted to tell them. Try being told you're too soft, more suited to motherhood, that you should be back in the village breeding the next generation. Try hearing that every day you’re your first period until you're too old to bear children, regardless of your skill. You’d be vicious too.
“He was the one who started the rumors about one of the Uchiha controlling the Kyuubi,” she answers. “Fugaku was one half of the problem. He was the other.”
It’s cold, she knows, to speak that way of the man who up until a few hours ago was her husband and the father of her children. Despicable, to speak that way after she pulled her sword off the wall and drove it through his chest. Fugaku was her friend if nothing else, a rival in their childhoods and a man who was determined to do his best for the clan, but—
But she thinks of Itachi waking screaming, of Fugaku’s utter lack of doubt that she would do the proper thing for the sake of the clan and kill the woman she’s loved for as long as she’s known her, the determined slant of his mouth when he spoke of wiping out the clans that would oppose them. Spoke of killing children, taking hostages, overturning the Hokage and restoring the Uchiha to their rightful place—
A madman, she had thought, and in the storm of horror and disbelief that tore at her it was a cold, clear note of certainty. The man she had married, but not one she could save. Not one she would even try to save.
Like growing roses. When the roots start to rot, you know the plant is lost. The only thing to do is burn it out before it can infect the rest.
Mikoto is an assassin, a murderer, once made her career on her ability to kill with ruthless precision and do what she needed to without flinching or holding back. She fought in the war, before Itachi was born. She carved her way through whole hosts of enemy shinobi with Kushina at her side, and together they laid waste to battlefields and pushed the invaders back without mercy.
Maybe Fugaku forgot that about her. He always was a blind fool.
Always before she’s killed to protect her village, her home. This time was no different, but
—
This time she also killed to protect the thing she loves.
“Rumors we can stop,” Kushina promises, and the fierce light Mikoto has seen so many times is growing in her eyes. “The Kyuubi will know who controlled him, and I’ll beat him up if he doesn’t answer. Then we’ll have proof that it wasn’t anyone from the village.”
No doubt in her at all, Mikoto thinks with a fond smile. Not even the smallest sliver. She’s so beautiful in her certainty. Like that day Mikoto watched her rise, red-eyed but steady, with the Hokage's robes around her shoulders and the hat on her head, something no one expected but everyone cheered for. Kushina isn’t Minato, and has never tried to be. She’s relentless and ruthless with a hot temper and a strange ability to make friends out of her enemies. Konoha is lucky to have her. Mikoto is lucky, too.
“Things are going to have to change,” she says, and when Kushina's purple eyes meet her own, she smiles, catching Kushina's hand and twining their fingers together. “Everything, from the ground up.”
Kushina just grins, bright and brilliant, and squeezes her hand. “Then it’s a good thing I've got the Uchiha Clan Head on my side,” she points out cheerfully, though there's something dark and steady in her eyes that makes Mikoto think of missions under the full moon, blood drying in the sunlight. Kushina is loud and bold and bright, a hurricane in human form, but people always seem to forget the devastation that comes in a storm’s wake.
Mikoto hasn’t forgotten. Mikoto has never forgotten. She smiles back, feeling the particular twist beneath her breastbone that’s never entirely gone away, and knows without needing to look that there's a matching darkness in her own eyes. “I don’t think there are any other heirs left,” she muses. “Not of the main bloodline, at least. Only Itachi and Sasuke, and they're not suitable.” Seeing Kushina start to open her mouth, she shakes her head, able to anticipate the question. “Not Itachi,” she says, quiet but firm. “I need you to get him out of ANBU. Maybe—maybe give him a job helping at the Academy. He’s…”
Broken, she doesn’t finish with, even though it’s true. Broken because of what Fugaku pushed him to be against his nature. Broken because she didn’t step in and oppose it, even when she saw what was happening clearly. Her fault as a mother, and it aches deep down in her chest.
“I’ll sign the paperwork today,” Kushina promises without hesitation, and returns Mikoto’s wan smile with a brighter one. It’s so lovely, the kindest thing Mikoto has seen in a very long time, and she can't physically resist the urge to close the space between them, to fit her mouth against Kushina's the way she wanted to so very many times as children, as teenagers, as a married woman who knew she couldn’t act. Too many years spent not acting, now, and Mikoto is through with it. She’ll learn to lead if she has to, but there's only one person that she’ll follow, and that’s Kushina.
Soft lips part beneath hers, kiss back with the same careful intensity that Mikoto started, and Kushina makes a breathy sound in her throat, shifting forward. She presses herself up against Mikoto, soft breasts and lean muscles under Mikoto’s hands, the silk of her hair pooling on the floor around them like fire, like blood. Mikoto gasps into her mouth, wants with an intensity that’s foreign to her, digs her fingers into cloth as if she’s about to tear it apart to get at the skin beneath.
She kisses the girl she loved, the woman she loves, the Hokage she would die for. There’s a trace of copper on her tongue, like blood, but that just makes it sweeter. They break apart, collide again like galaxies, and Mikoto pushes Kushina back, up against the desk as she laughs, breathless and beautiful, against Mikoto’s lips. Another kiss, tongues seeking, and Kushina's hands slide up her sides to lightly cup her breasts. Each touch is dizzying, dazzling, like starbursts of color behind Mikoto’s eyes, and she laughs too, nipping at Kushina's lips until she moans, pressing a hand to her sternum to feel the heartbeat galloping in her chest.
I killed for you, she thinks, and wonders a little giddily if the red on her hands will match the color of Kushina's hair. And—it’s nothing new, to guard Kushina's back. They watch each other and always have. Even against Fugaku, the elders, the leaders of the police force, Mikoto didn’t hesitate. She knew, bone-deep and certain, that making any other choice would kill her just as surely as it would kill Kushina.
A few centimeters is all she can bring herself to pull back, and she looks into Kushina's bruise-purple eyes, searching for an answer to a question she can't quite voice. Kushina smiles at her, lips swollen, breath coming hard, and stares right back.
There's a certainty in her gaze, a promise. We’ll fix things, Mikoto. We’ll fix it all. And—Mikoto wouldn’t believe it of anyone else, would scoff at something like that if anyone else said it to her, but Kushina is something different. She’s the sun, while Mikoto is the moon, and surely an eclipse is the most beautiful moment in the existence of either one.
“We’ll change it,” Kushina promises again, like she can read the thoughts spinning behind Mikoto’s eyes. Another touch to her cheek, gentle as long fingers slide into her hair, and Kushina pulls her in, doesn’t allow any space at all to separate them. “All of it, I swear. You’ll never have to make a choice like that again, Mikoto. You protected me. You saved my life. Now let me return the favor.”
The breath catches in Mikoto’s throat halfway through her laugh, and she feels something wet touch her cheeks. Tears, she thinks, and it’s almost a surprise to realize. She tries again to shape a laugh, but it shatters into a sob, shakes through her as she ducks her head to press her face against Kushina's shoulder. Kushina cups the back of her head, leaning against the Hokage's desk, and hums one of Uzushio's old lullabies under her breath as she strokes Mikoto’s back.
There's still blood beneath Mikoto’s fingernails, a dress in the corner of her room that’s soaked in it so heavily Mikoto knows she’ll never get it clean. There are corpses in the library, securely locked so neither Itachi nor Sasuke can wander in, and more in the offices at the Military Police Force building.
Kushina's voice is sweet, though, and her hands are gentle. She smells like wildflowers and honed blades, and Mikoto has never stopped loving her.